CSI: New York: Red Sky
by Bas450
Summary: After a string of killings the CSI team must work together with a Detective from the NYPD's Gang Unit to bring down a prolific contract killer.


1

The sun stung in the spiky-haired man's eyes. He put on his sunglasses and turned the car onto 67th Avenue and parked along the curb. He sighed and opened the glove compartment. He rummaged around for a second and then extracted a gun from it. He checked the magazine and pulled the slide backwards. He screwed on the silencer, sighed again and put the gun in his waistband on the small of his back. He got out of the car, locked the doors and crossed the street. He went up the steps leading to the apartment building, checked the plaque next to the door bells and found the name he was looking for. He pressed a random bell and waited.

'Yes?' sounded a metallic voice through the speaker.

'Ma'am, I'm with the NYPD. Could you open the door for me, please?'

'I can, sir. After I've seen some ID.'

The man reached in his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open and showed the woman the shimmering silver badge inside it.

'All right, I'll buzz you in.'

The door hummed and he went inside. He ended up in a bright vestibule with copper door mountings and broad stairs leading up to the upper floors. He went up the stairs two steps at the time. The apartment he needed to be at was at the topmost floor. After three more flights he hanged a left and approached the last door on the right. He knocked thrice.

'Who's there?'

He heard shuffling and the grinding of the chain being rolled off the rail. He stepped in front of the door, hand on the butt of the gun. The door opened and there was a man in a burgundy robe, which was open at the front. The killer brought up the gun, squeezed off three shots which hit the man square in the chest, and turned around before the body hit the floor.

Downstairs the man threw the gun in the dust bin next to the steps leading to the street. He crossed the street in a hurry, got in his rental and drove off.

Mac Taylor stood in the corridor, hands akimbo, overlooking the body in the apartment's doorway. Intermittent flashes lit up the corridor every now and again. Taylor was a Detective with, and supervisor off, the NYPD's Crime Scene Unit; a special unit within the department tasked with investigating the crime scenes of the city.

A couple of uniformed officers and a plain-clothes Detective were dispersed all along the corridor, interviewing the neighbours of the deceased. Danny Messer, one of Mac's team members, was on his haunches, photographing the dead body. He got up and approached Mac.

'Hey Mac,' he said.

'What do we have?'

'Dead guy, nude except for his robes. Three shots to the torso, near his heart. Looks like a nasty .45. Has all the earmarks of a professional hit.'

'ToD?'

'According to the ME, not more than two hours ago.'

Mac frowned. 'Nobody heard the shots?'

'Nope. Nada. There was a neighbour on this floor who presumably buzzed the killer in.'

'Presumably?'

'Well, the guy said he was with us. Had the proper ID, too. At least, the woman said he had a shield. Detective Sunshine over there,' Danny jerked a thumb to the plain-clothes Detective down the hall. 'is talking to her now.'

'Detective Sunshine?'

Danny had retaken his position next to the body. 'Real piece of work. Is with Anti-Crime, thinks he's this big shot New York guy. Pisses me off.'

Danny was a true New Yorker, born on Staten Island. Both his parents and his grandfather had been on the force as well. His grandfather had even made it to Deputy Chief. They had been disappointed with Danny at first – he had taken a different path than his family, opting for the Crime Scene Unit instead of what they considered a 'proper' unit, like Homicide – but they had now come to respect his decision. Danny had a heartfelt dislike for anybody who tried to be one of those 'hip-hop' New Yorkers, and apparently this Anti-Crime Detective had instilled this hatred.

'Any other witnesses?'

'None that I heard off, though Sunshine has instructed the uni's to report to him only…'

'Okay, well – I'll talk to him, then. Got it covered?'

'Yeah, boss.'

Mac strolled down the corridor to the Detective talking to a woman in a hot pink tracksuit and turquoise shirt. She had make-up on that was highly inappropriate for her age, as she was at least fifty-three years old. She was barefoot and held her Pekingese in her arms. It barked at the Detective shrilly, who eyed it suspiciously.

'… don't understand, Detective. She never does this to anyone.'

'No matter, ma'am.'

Mac suppressed a grin and crossed his arms. He flashes his shield to the woman and the other Detective. He announced himself to both, 'Detective Taylor, Crime Scene Unit.'

The Anti-Crime Detective nodded curtly and looked at the woman again. He held his notepad at the ready. 'Could you run us through the events one more time?'

'Well, I was just watching my soap operas.' Mac noticed the woman was talking with a fake southern lilt, which was not southern enough to mask a Jersey accent. 'My doorbell rang and I got up. I was actually sort of mad, as it was t just getting thrilling. Now, this man was at the door and he said he had to be in this building. He didn't say what apartment, but he said he was a cop. So, I asked him for his ID. He showed his badge to me and I buzzed him in. So, I got back to my soap operas and never paid attention to it anymore. Then, it was time for my baby to have her walk and I went outside, never looked at the other corridor. When I got back I saw the man's feet sticking out of the doorway. I went inside my apartment and called the police.'

'So, you never got a good look at the killer?'

'No. I only saw his badge. He kept his face turned away from the camera when I answered.'

'OK, thank you, ma'am,' the Anti-Crime Detective said.

The two of them walked away from the witness and conferred with each other at the stairs.

The Anti-Crime Detective stuck out his hand, 'Detective Duethorn, Anti-Crime.'

'Taylor, CSU.'

'Victim is Marlon Howard, forty-three. Word on the street has it he was in cahoots with the Russian mob in Brighton Beach. We're regarding this as a mob hit, given the signs that it was a professional hit.'

'With all due respect, Detective, but determining whether or not this was or was not a professional hit remains with the Crime Scene Unit and not with the case Detective.'

'Are you saying I'm not capable to assess whether or not this man was killed by the mafia?'

'No, I'm merely stating proper protocol. To which, if this indeed turns out to be a professional hit, we will abide to negate the possibility of the case getting thrown out of court on a technicality.'

'Hmmph,' Duethorn snorted.

'Oh, and for further reference; my Detective over there is also a sworn officer with the NYPD, so he is best kept in the loop. Do we have an understanding?'

'Yes, Detective,' said Duethorn, aghast.

'Now, moving on. I agree that this looks like a professional hit. Killer used .45, wreaks havoc to a body.'

'Did you recover the gun?'

'No, but if this was a professional killer, he probably dumped in the Hudson by now. We will check the apartment, just to be on the safe side.'

''Kay, well. I'll be at the precinct; Manhattan South, that is.'

'Good, I'll call you when we turn up something.'

Danny Messer watched as two men in ocme windbreakers heaved the body of Marlon Howard onto their gurney and rolled him towards the elevator. He stepped into the apartment, kit in one hand and looked around. The apartment seemed pristine, but Danny knew that looks could be deceiving. He turned on the spot and decided to go for the bedroom first. The victim had been found in his robe, so Danny guessed he had been sleeping – or too lazy to get dressed.

Danny entered the bedroom and found his initial suspicions to be correct; the bed wasn't made and there was the musty smell of sleep. He looked around and saw the victim's wallet and watch on the nightstand. He crossed the room and picked up the leather wallet. He flipped it open and rifled through it. There was about fifty dollars in cash, three credit cards, a driver's license and a few discount cards. Danny bagged both the wallet and the watch in separate evidence bags.

Turning around, he went for the closet. He pulled open the beech-wood doors and rifled through the clothing. Most of it came from discount shops and some warehouses corresponding with the discount cards in the victim's wallet. Also, there was a uniform that seemed like the ones worn by service station employees. He pulled one of the rail and held it up to eye-height. On the left side of the chest, a diamond shape was stitched, embroidered with the name marlon. Danny took a quick series of pictures, making sure the name patch was legible. He put the uniform back in its original position and turned around again. He sighed and started photographing the rest of the apartment.

A .45 calibre bullet was not easily stopped by the human body. It was made specifically to kill – or at least wound when the person getting hit wore a Kevlar vest – and had the tendency to keep going, even after it hit its intended target. Danny had heard of cases where a .45 had killed a man, went through a wooden door, through a closed window and ended up in a tree across the street from where the shooting took place. Danny hoped that history wasn't going to repeat itself and that the bullets never left the apartment. Danny went back to the doorway and kneeled. If the victim had stood in the open doorway – which he most likely had, given the position he was found in – the bullets would have travelled in a straight line and struck the wall behind the victim, next to the window overlooking the buildings inner plaza. Danny got up and walked over to the wall. And there they were, the plaster blasted from the wall on impact, three .45 calibre bullets lodged in the concrete. Danny took a series of photos and then pried them out, depositing them in an evidence bag.

'There you are, you tiny little rats,' he said.

He was just about to collect his finds and leave for the lab when a uniformed officer appeared in the doorway.

'Detective?' he said. 'You're going to want to see this.'

Mac was in his office at the top floor of the NYPD headquarters, known colloquially as One Police Plaza, or simply 1PP. The New York crime lab ranked number three of all crime labs all over the fifty states regarding closure rate and successful convictions. The crime lab took up the two topmost floors of the headquarters. Mac's office was along the outer wall, with a ceiling-high window behind his frost-glass desk. The window overlooked Park Row, which had been closed off for traffic after the 9/11-attacks.

Mac's office was decorated with book shelves on the wall with pictures of him as a Marine, his diploma of the Police Academy and a series of commendations he had earned over his years as a Detective. There was a two-seater against the glass wall overlooking the lab's atrium and against the western wall there were three filing cabinets, flanked by an LCD touchscreen television. There was an American flag in one of the corners and the flag of the state of New York in the opposite corner.

Mac was looking something up on his computer when there was a knock on the door. Danny stood in the hallway and Mac waved him in. Danny flung himself onto the leather couch and ran a hand over his face.

'What have you got?' asked Mac.

'A uni found the gun used in the killing – at least, I guess it's the one – in a dumpster next to the front door steps at the crime scene. .45 Browning, silencer, no prints. I dropped it off at Ballistics to have it checked against the bullets I recovered from the apartment.'

'You recovered the bullets?'

Danny nodded and elaborated, 'After the bullets left the body they lodged in the back wall, next to the window. I dug 'em out. Seemed there was enough left for comparison.'

'Good job,' said Mac, nodding his approval. 'Get me the results as soon as they come in.'

'Will do, boss.'

With those words Danny left the office, while behind the glass the heaven's split open and let loose its torrent of cool rain.


End file.
